That Site With The Name

A Contest of Artistry

2008-03-03T15:37:00.000-08:00

So, over on the forums for CRACKED (the comedy site I write for) a little artistic competition has been put together, and being that I have more or less no artistic talent, I thought it would be a good idea to throw my hat into the ring. Anyways, the gist of it is this -- a one word prompt is given for the round, pictures are drawn based on that prompt, and then go head-to-head in a bracket to advance to the next round and next prompt. Continue until 32 is whittled down to 1.

Well, the first round is underway with "Action," and I figured I'd share my masterpiece for it with all four of you likely to see this.

So... uh... Ta Dah!

(Click it for a bigger version)

Anywho, the page for the whole deal is here. If you'd like to check out the other entries, you just click one of the small versions of the pairings, then bigger versions of their icon will pop up below, and you click on that to see their pictures. Oh, and those bigger versions are also where you vote, you know, if you'd like to vote for me (or the other guy.)

Go Read My Article on Cracked.com

2007-09-13T20:12:00.000-07:00

Somehow, despite my continually thinking that it would fail at every step of the process, "8 Manliest Musicals" is now online at CRACKED.com, and you should be awesome and go read it right now. It didn't receive a brutal amount of editing, and what changes it did see were (predominantly) for the better.

I don't rightly know how well it will do, as their big-traffic articles tend to be about movies, video games or technology, since apparently nerds love the internet. Go figure. Either way, if you have a digg account (or, if you're really cool and willing to sign up for one just for me) you should digg the shit out of it, 'cause I'm pretty sure digg.com is now entirely responsible for any article being successful online today. More traffic from my article means they're more likely to buy another of my articles. More articles sold equals more money. More money equals more beer. More beer equals more drunk Bobby rollerblading and, inevitably, hurting himself for everyone else's amusement. So, see, it's in your own best interest.

I'm a Published Humorist!

2007-09-10T10:19:00.000-07:00

Well, not quite yet, but soonish. For those of you I haven't bombarded with giddy talk about it, the webmaster at a comedy site I like to read recently got hired as Assistant Editor for Cracked.com, a comedy site of fair stature. Suffice it to say, it does marginally more traffic than the 50-150 angry Harry Potter fans I get on a daily basis. Well, he put out an open call for people who would be looking to write for them and be paid on a per-article basis, and I decided to throw out a few pitches. More specifically, two.

I actually just jumped on board as motivation to start writing again, since I hadn't in ages, and didn't expect anything I offered to be liked. As it were, both pitches I threw out apparently had potential, though since one has to do with 'Lost' it won't actually see daylight until sometime closer to its February return. But, that brings my rambling to a point, that being that the other piece had both potential and the ability to work whenever they wanted it to, so I was officially given the green light to write it for them, and the final product has been sent their way which means sometime in the future (when specifically I don't know, as they only run an article per day) my article, tentatively titled "10 (Almost) Manly Musicals (And Why You're Not Gay for Liking Them)," will be online, and will likely get read more times in its first day than anything else I've put online has in-total in the three year run of my "web site."

I Should Not Be Allowed to Fend For Myself in the Real World

2007-07-05T17:47:00.001-07:00

Seriously, I mean that. If you don't believe me, just have a quick perusal of the self-inflicted woes I've been stuck with in the mere week-and-a-half since camp started, solely as a result of my own stupidity. Oh, and it bears noting that this list is simply the self-harm I can currently remember from the last few days. You can rest assured that there is plenty more that I am forgetting.

The Pole
Resulting Injuries: Badly scraped/gashed hand, minor scrapes on legs
Also to Blame: Bees
Why I Suck: So, all of 15 minutes into the first day of camp I managed my first moment of brilliance at the basketball courts. With a counselor-to-camper ratio in the cage of a ludicrous number somewhere in the 4:7 neighborhood, it should have been a pretty easy, relaxing morning. A roughly 1-to-2 ration means you have more or less no responsibility, plus the majority of the kids were youngins, so none of the annoying mouthing off you get when mixing sports with eighth-grade boys who are at that age where they are old enough to think they're tough, but small enough to blow away in a stiff wind. And for awhile, it was pretty calm. Then the bee showed up, and I began flailing and backpedaling with all the grace and control of a raver having a seizure. For those of you who have never been to Camp Sac, the cage can also be used for tennis, so there's a center pole for the nets, which I completely forgot about in my insect-related panic, leading to one painful introduction of ass-to-asphalt.

Bobby Ball
Resulting Injuries: Emotional trauma, bruising
Also to Blame: Ally, Cooney, Rev. Ed, Kira
Why I Suck: Apparently tired with the cage's vast game assortment of Knockout and more Knockout, the children were looking for something new to play. Ally suggested "hit Bobby with the basketballs." My loving fellow-counselors obliged. I spent the next 5 minutes curled in a ball with the campers circled around me, throwing basketballs at my face. I'm not kidding.

Left Field
Resulting Injuries: Loss of a fair portion of the flesh which used to comprise my leg, other painful cuts
Also to Blame: Nick
Why I Suck: With the excellent day one, and its fantastic games time, behind me, day two games found us at the kickball field. As is to be expected, my team was getting trounced, as I without fail manage to wind up as the counselor on the team full of kids that can barely walk, let alone partake in athletic endeavors. And Dan who, despite his closeness in nomenclature to athletic achievement, is even worse than the kids. So, my team is getting trounced when Nick comes up to bat (foot?), and blasts one deep. Thinking that it will be my hustle that will save the day for Team SpEd, I backpedal (you may be noticing a theme here) while intently following the ball. I kept my eye on the ball all the way to within two feet of my hands (thank you Tee-Ball coaches) at which point my priorities changed, as I suddenly realised I had hit the treeline and fallen into a bush. Now, I can only assume the ball hit a branch and bounced back onto the field as I soon saw Dan fielding it. I'm not sure though, as all my mind was focusing on at the time was the fact that said bush seemed to be of the pricker variety, and that one of the branches was somehow wrapped around my ankle a good four times.

The Greg Louganis
Resulting Injuries: Ouchie wrists, foggy brains
Also to Blame: Ed, Tim, Wesley Snipes and Woody Harrelson
Why I Suck: Games day four, and fresh off an injury-free day three, I'm feeling pretty good. The group before us had played ultimate Frisbee, but our group thought that was totally gay (which it isn't, but again, eigth grade guys) and decided to instead play soccer. Being that we're lazy fucks, the counselors sat around and watched. Then Ed decided he could hurdle the Frisbee goals which, as anyone who knows Ed and has some reasonable estimation of Frisbee goal heights (ie: over 2 feet tall) can tell you, he could not. Being that we're retarded though, Tim and I joined him in attempting to hurdle them, despite the fact that they are somewhere between four and five feet tall. Eventually, I had the brilliant idea to dive face first to clear the hurdle. Stupid. But, as it turns out, I did it successfully and injury free. Twice. Then I joined the soccer game, and decided to celebrate a goal with a third dive. Not a great decision. I landed wrong on my wrists, then had my head slam into the ground, leading to much wooziness.

Fuck You, Tyler
Resulting Injuries: More cuts on my legs, friction burned shin
Also to Blame: Tyler
Why I Suck: Week two has actually been a banner week for me, since as of right now this is the only injury that I can think of. Tim had us at the maze for capture-the-flag, and since the kids are all a bunch of little cheaters, Tyler and I hid out teams' respective flags, theoretically somewhere not surrounded by Ow. Tyler put his team's in the middle of a patch of what I can only reason was razorblades and rebar (is that even how it's spelled? I don't know, the metal pole-ish things you find in concrete) which led to my attempted capture, and his attempted tagging of me, being decisions we would both come to regret. As an added bonus, an homage to my last pricker-related injury if you would, while playing kickball today with no sandals (Faith had stolen mine, naturally) I decided to give my throbbing right foot a break by going lefty. The ball took a bounce and I kicked the ball as hard as I could directly off of the big friction burn on my shin that one of the sticks in the maze had given me in my mad-dash to freedom. That fucking hurt.

Witty Title
Resulting Injuries: Broken (possibly) computer monitor... fuck you, that counts
Also to Blame: God
Why I Suck: If you've never seen my room, it's small. Literally, I have a bed, a built in shelf thing, and this weird little bathroom with only half a wall, a broken toilet and a sink with water I would put somewhere below "syringe full of AIDs" on the list of things I'd like to drink from. Because of the putridness of the sink's pipes, I bring cups of water up to brush with. One of these cups, inexplicably, I left on my monitor last night. Today, and in looking at it now I don't know what exactly I was trying to do that caused this, I punched said cup, spilling water all over said monitor. Sure enough it fizzled and went all faded on me. I went to the attic to get another old one, which also decided it hated me, before settling on stealing the one hooked up to my brother's computer. My actual, not-a-piece-of-shit monitor is now sitting upside down on my eight square-feet of floor space in the hopes that will somehow make it not broked anymore. I don't know, it worked for my phone.

Like I said before, this is simply the stupidness coming to mind right now, and I'm sure there is plenty I missed, but I've been writing for awhile now and I still have to do a fake bio for Jim's birthday present, since he asked me a week ago, and his birthday is now in the multiple-days stage of passed. In my defense, I've been diligently working to create a new MillerBrothersMMA.com (which now looks much slicker and more professional if I do say so myself) because it needed to look better to match the big news regarding them that will be going up in the coming days/weeks.

I've Done It!!!

2007-05-17T08:34:00.000-07:00

I’ve reached my Zenith. There’s nowhere else for me to go, or anything else for me to accomplish in this world. Today I, Bobby Ingram, have achieved more than I could ever have hoped to achieve in this world.

You see, as I’ve mentioned on blogger a few times before, about two years ago I was bored and stumbled across some whack job claiming Harry Potter was the anti-Christ and turning children into heathen-loving baby kickers, which is more or less retarded. Since I have nothing better to do with my time, I wrote an article satirizing it, complete with 13 points, none of which are even remotely valid or containing the smallest hint of truth.

Well, people tend to miss the point and post links to it on Potter sites and groups, and as a result it is closing in on some 20,000 views, which while small in internet terms, is stupidly high for something I wrote for my own entertainment.

Now, this article getting linked and misunderstood is nothing new to me. It’s been on forums, frontpages of Potter fansites (though that links to the forum thread on it since it’s off the front now,) facebook thread, after facebook thread, after facebook picture, and even the occasional standard (see: regular blogging by a sane human) LiveJournal, and those are all just a portion of the past month’s crop. Trust me, there are many, many threads just like those, filled with people who simply missed the point.

Today every link I’ve ever received before has been made obsolete. My good Rev’s thesis has now been linked by none other than an author of Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy erotic fiction.

I’m going to repeat that, because I don’t think I can make this clear enough:

A link to my webpage currently sits sandwiched between stories in which Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, two teenage boys, engage in various romps of a sexual and explicit nature. What the fuck?!?!

If you think I’m kidding, here is the full journal, where my link is the only post not regarding fictional teenage boys laying pipe together. While I can’t say I’ve clicked any of the links to confirm this, I feel it’s fairly safe to say you don’t want to click any of the links to the actual stories, because I can’t see how that would prove to me anything but a terrifyingly life-changing experience.

In other news on the HP-Article front, due to the fact that every time one of the above facebook links seems like it’s finally buried enough in those groups boards to die, somebody posts on it and brings it back to the top, I’ve received several thousand views the past month from people actively on facebook. Because of this, and the handy Reverend James Adams facebook button next to the article, the Rev is becoming rather e-popular. In fact his friends have tripled in the past month, and he’s up to some 40-odd friends. Again, not bad for a guy that doesn’t exist.

The problem in all this is that these threads won’t die, and he just keeps steadily acquiring more and more friends as a result of it. While I haven’t done the numbers, even with the recent friend lull he’s hit, I can estimate he’s making about a friend-a-day for the past month. I only have somewhere around 240-50 e-friends.

At the rate he’s going, by September I am going to be less popular than my imaginary friend.

I don’t know what the true definition of “loser” is, but I can’t imagine there’s a much more accurate one than “finding out a fictional person who exists solely as some 1,000 words on an irrelevant website is more beloved than you are.”

I am a Giant Pile of Retarded or How I Broke my Phone

2007-04-23T18:27:00.000-07:00

I dunked my phone in a glass of water today, much as I would imagine one would dunk a cookie in milk, though I have no actual experience with the latter. Now, you would think I would grow used to these kind of idiotic occurrences by now, having experienced many, but lo' and behold they still catch me off guard.

This one started Thursday night when I ran out of Coke and went to the store to buy some. There I saw a sale consisting of two monster-sized energy drinks for $3, and figured "what the hell." I drank the Sobe that night, and sat up playing Mario Sunshine since my 10 a.m. on Friday was cancelled. That left me with an amped(R) just sitting in my fridge, until Friday night when I decided to drink it for no real purpose. Jimmy, mooch that he is, asked for some, and on my way to get him a glass I spotted his Jager shot glasses and decided to pour us each one amped(R) of those instead. My shot glass ended up in my room, and while ADDing that weekend I found that it fit my phone perfectly, serving as an excellent, though admittedly unnecessary, stand.

Yesterday, as already chronicled, I burned my finger via electric shock. Being the giant Nancy that I am, I ended up dunking my finger in a glass of ice-water to cool my burned flesh. Well, the ice eventually melted, yielding one glass of plain water on my desk, next to my Jager shot glass. If you don't see where this one is going yet, you might want to seek help.

So, James went to the library to study tonight, and since my printer blows, I asked him to print stuff for me while there. I picked up my phone to text him about how I was sending it, then thought better of it as texts aren't in my plan. Since I was currently occupied at the time with something or other I can't recall all of an hour later, I just reached to my left to return the phone to its mount. It was about 2/3 underwater before it dawned on me that bad things were afoot.

Over the past hour I've watched the screen flicker then black out, the beeper go off at random, and ultimately, watched it perish. My only hope is that I can get the screen working enough to transfer my newer numbers to my old phone which, ironically enough, I just found a few weeks ago after thinking it lost, and had just used to update my new phone with numbers I hadn't gotten again since losing it.

I'm afraid my phone will no longer serenade me with the theme from Zelda, or that song from the Mos Eisley bar in the first (well, fourth) Star Wars movie. You served me well for your few short months phone, fair thee well.

Hello, My Name is Bobby Ingram, and I am a Jackass

2007-04-22T21:14:00.000-07:00

Generally speaking, I don't ask for much in life. I would actually be pretty content with my life if I could just go about it without looking like an asshole on a regular basis, because I'm one of those people that cares way too much about what everyone thinks of him. You know the guy I'm talking about. The pathetic little guy who, with the right of way in his favor, will wave three cars in a row on, just so people who will likely not even throw a courtesy hand will think he's a swell dude. That guy's me. So yeah, just not looking like an idiot daily would make me extremely happy. Unfortunately for me, I'm Bobby, so that's just not the case.

Today's adventure in Bobbydom came as a result of my broken laptop. While the screen on it had been mysteriously red-tinted for a month or two, it still caught me totally off guard when the screen went dead on me. For a smart guy, I'm not that bright. After finding some help on the ol' interweb, I set about to fixing it today, only to promptly find my progress halted by those little screws with the ungodly small indentations for the screwdriver. Without the aid of a mini-screwdriver I was fucked, and so I took a trek down the road to Shop Rite to pick me up an eye-glasses repair kit. Cost: $1.92 post tax. Now, it bears mentioning that I spent last weekend in Atlantic City for Jim and Dan's fights, and when they pay you in AC, they don't exactly do it in whatever's convenient for you. They pay you in as few bills as possible. That's how I found myself standing in the checkout line with two bills in my wallet, a $1 and a $50.

As I watched the woman in front of me in the express line start pestering the cashier about something or other, I weighed my options. What made me less of an asshole. On the one hand, I can be that douche who charges a minuscule little item. Personally, I hate that guy for holding up the whole line with his purchase of one bag of Cheetos, and I'd imagine a lot of other people do too. Option B was to pay for my $1.92 repair kit with a $50 bill. Now I'm that dickhead with money who likes to throw it around and show how rich he is. Given that, paired with the $100 sitting in my drawers to give to Joe for our next utilities bill, that $51 was all the money to my name, it wouldn't exactly be an accurate perception, though one I could see people coming to none-the-less. In the end, I went the charge card route, if only to improve my personal low-charge record from its prior mark in the mid $2s.

So, I returned home, trusty repair kit in hand, and went to work on my computer. The whole process went pretty smoothly for awhile. I got the cover of the laptop off, got the broken part out, even fiddled with it for a bit to see if it hadn't just come loose. As it turns out, fiddling with parts of a computer while it is A) turned on, and B) plugged in, is not a good call. I actually managed to catch the laptop before it hit the ground, granted this is after I let out a girly shriek and spaz tossed it, but I call that a push. Now though, I do have a nice, self-cauterized, painful-as-all-fuck electric burn on my left index finger where the laptop used it as a circuit wire as a reminder to not be so much of a fucking idiot.

On an unrelated note, as I sit here watching Let's Go to Prison, it is beginning to dawn on me that the whole Unrated edition decision, while usually technically sound when it comes to comedic DVDs, may not have been the best call given that it is a movie about guys in an all-guy prison. I frankly don't see where they can be going with this beyond the horror that is Dudity.

If you're still reading this, you're probably wondering what the hell it has to do with you, and why you should care. Honestly? Nothing, and you shouldn't. I'm just trying to stay on the whole "writing every day" thing, and after writing a full chapter yesterday didn't feel like working on my totally kick-ass novel, thus, blog time. Oh well, you've already read it and there's nothing you can do about it. Unless you're actually Nicholas Cage in that movie he's coming out with, in which case there are probably better places to apply your power than my crummy blogger page.

A Bobby Biography - Deluca, Matthew R.

2007-02-25T22:31:00.000-08:00

Matt needed a biography to put on his website. I'm an awesome friend, so I obliged.

Born the son of a Norwegian lugist and a Bulgarian midwife, Matt Deluca moved to America at the age of five, where he was forced to provide for his family through apple thievery. One day, while frolicking nimbly through an orchid, Matt was apprehended by the estate’s owner Reginald P. Thurgood. Threatened with persecution, the ever-crafty Deluca set forth with a soft shoe routine that would have made Gene Kelly envious. Thurgood was enthralled and took on young Matthew as his apprentice.

Matt would soon come to learn that there was more to Thurgood than met the eye when he accidentally stumbled upon the secret passageway located behind Thurgood’s “Happy Days” mural, and came upon an Illuminati rite so horrifying I won’t repeat it here. Keeping his cool, Matt took the display in stride, and soon had earned the trust of the Illuminati front office, and the rank of Illuminati Kitten Scout. His climb through the organization to the rank of Leopard Scout was unparalleled.

Unfortunately, tragedy struck poor Matthew when he lost his left leg in the Illumo-Masonic War of 2001. Disparate and suddenly lopsided, Matt retreated into the confines of Thurgood manor where he discovered a newfangled machine that he would come to call a “magic talk-to-others-and-also-write-stuff typewriter.” Using the computer, Matt set out to complete a goal that he had been striving after for several minutes, and began creation of his own website. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, straylightrise.com.

It's Gonna be the Future Soon

2007-02-12T13:53:00.000-08:00

I've decided I really have to start writing more, so I'm going to be looking wherever I can to try to find different writing challenges or whatnot, which I will attempt in my own retarded way, ideally one every day, and then post here on Blogger (and I suppose in doing so, facebook too.) Today's inaugural entry comes from a thread on PWoT about dystopian futures. Most of the people responded with fairly plausible, if not always entirely serious, proposals. I give you this:

2237: Global warming has wreaked havoc upon the world’s climate. The habitable landmass has shrunk severely. On the bright side, the smaller mass is also far warmer, turning the world into a one giant Caribbean vacation. Through time, humans develop a monotonal brown skin color. In joyous celebration, racism declared dead.

2239: Bored with their favorite activity stolen from them, bigots hold a conference. Hate-Con ’39 is a resounding success, with thousands in attendance. The food is sub-par. Following days of heated debate, shoe size is selected as new method of hatred to rely upon. Fighting ensues at the conference between those with larger feet and the now-persecuted “little foots” in attendance.

2246: With the election of World Leader James Doerkson, the 7’2” former korfball star, legislation begins to be passed down limiting the rights of “little foots.” Big Foot militia forces begin to form.

2248: Through intimidation by the Big Foot militia, little foot candidates are discouraged from running for office. With full control of the world’s legislation attained, little foots are put under harsh regulation. Curfews installed. Creation of “luxury shoes” such as athletics wear and loafers deemed illegal below size 12.

2249: E-mails proclaiming “OMG F00T GROWHT PILLS!!!1 GUARENTE MAKE HER SAY WOW!” run rampant.

2251: United Little Foots Rights Force has first meeting. Four people show up, including one legal dwarf and a descendant of the little foot mythical legend Muggsy Bogues.

2253: A now heartier ULFRF begins mobilization phase one by installing tall folk with unusually small feet into the big foot ranks in counterfeit athletic sneakers and loafers. Pennies optional.

2256: Scandal rocks the big foot world when top political advisor Donald Williams is revealed to be a little foot spy in an oversized pair of soccer cleats. In his final year of his second six-year term, President Doerkson declares an immediate hiatus on all elections while branches are “searched thoroughly for more of those damn rotten littles.”

2259: Mobilization phase two begins, with the interception of boot supplies headed for big foot militia bases. Boots are replaced with models with far weaker arch support. With big foot forces weakened, and suffering from many lower leg strains, ULFRF declares war officially on the “Goliath Plague infecting [their] fair earth.”

2265: In violation of the codes of war the Big Foot Defense Force begins to use chemical warfare through the infusion of poisoned soles into the ULFRF inventory. ULFRF responds by releasing public statement to its generals to “go nuts. Seriously, just rape and pillage to your hearts’ content.”

2268: With ULFRF forces having seized control of nearly the entire globe, Leader Doerkson issues desperate plea to fight the littles to the very last survivor.

2269: Final big foot survivor secured, beaten to death by size 10 Croc-brand all-purpose foot apparel.

2270: Newly elected Leader Bogues declares the war won, and a world of love and equality re-established. Calendar year re-dated to 1 in honor of change.

3: Persecution of those with “gangly toes” begins.

So anyways...

2006-12-15T14:21:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I haven't done anything for the blog or site for awhile, but, whatever. I finished my zombie NaNoNovel, and will prolly edit it and re-write sometime in March. All-in-all, it's a pretty great book. Also, I'm working on starting a new online story, well trilogy, tentatively titled "Yes! It's Another Fantasy Trilogy!!!" Hopefully, I'll get a new article up on the site to replace the last one on the frontpage in the near future.

Oh, and in Harry Potter news, Harry Potter fans still hate me, though now they do it via e-mail, forum and the wall of this group. I love them, because they make me feel smart.

NaNoWriMo Part 2 - Now With Zombies

2006-11-06T22:31:00.000-08:00

I'm not overly happy with the first part of this chapter, but since it's NaNo I had to keep going. The early parts here will definately be much more fleshed out and less sucky when I revise and finalise the story. That being said, I'm really happy with how this story's progressing. 6,622 words and 18 single-spaced pages isn't bad for three days. Oh, and this has had no proodreading, so there may be typos.

Chapter Two – Benjamin Curry’s Halloween Spectacular

The Halloween Factory turned out to be less than five minutes up the road, which was a good thing as my mood left us riding in silence. Well, not talking at least. Justin was still blasting “Kernkraft 400” as loud as physically possible for the entire trip.

The place was huge, and I had to admit I was grateful for that. I don’t exactly have an easy time finding things that I think I look good in, and a place with a ton of costumes to try on was more than welcome.

I found myself staring as Misty came over to us, and cursed myself for being an awkward fool as we entered the expansive store. If you’ve never entered a building with two stories of nothing but Halloween costumes before, let me tell you it can be a little bit overwhelming at first.

“So,” Misty said, “What are you guys looking to find.”

‘Um…I… whatever looks decent,” I mumbled.

“Justin?”

“Oh, I’ve got everything I need at the house. We’re here for you two.”

“I see,” she laughed. “Well I’m looking to avoid the stereotypes. No slutty cop or slutty pirate.”

“In that case,” Justin said, grabbing a costume from the rack next to him, “You’re going to have to go with slutty CPA.”

“No.”

“Come on, it comes with a calculator and everything.”

This routine played out several times up and down the aisles, slutty chef, slutty polo player, slutty minotaur, all of them nos. Behind them, I shuffled along and grabbed a few outfits off the rack. After what seemed like an eternity we had passed through all the aisles, and Misty and I had each accumulated a healthy pile of potential costumes.

It was at this point that it finally crossed my mind that costume stores don’t actually allow you to try on costumes. “Uh, Justin?”

“Relax, I got it. You two, follow me. Oh, and try to seem disinterested in everything if you can.”

Misty looked quizzically at Justin, then me, and for the briefest moment I was pretty sure we had actually made eye contact. Deciding it was best to listen, we followed Justin to the back of the store, where he approached the girl behind the behind the counter. Following his commands, Misty and I stared off into the distance, a welcome excuse to avoid the awkward proposition of conversation.

When Justin opened his mouth, I was surprised to hear a German accent. An attempt at a German accent at least. “Hahlo, I am Lukas.”

The girl went to speak, but Justin raised a silencing finger.

“No, no, no. I am toking. You know me und my Freunden von our group Űbersonnen. Tonight we have Pahty. Mr. Benjamin Curry. Zey will need to try on zese costumes, jah?”

“Well, I don’t think we’re-”

“Mr. Benjamin Curry will not be happy if we do not look good. We are to be playing at pahty.”

“Um, let me see if I can call my-”

“No, no. We go now jah? Celebrity like us you want not to upset.”

“Um. Yeah, I suppose I can take you into the back, and you can try things on there.”

“Gut, gut. Frankie, Jens, komm.”

Amazed that something so retarded had actually worked, Misty and I joined Justin and the girl. Through the door behind the register we headed down a hallway to a small room.

“This is our break room. I can make sure nobody comes down here as long as you need it.”

“Ahh, sehr gut. It vill do nicely, danke.”

As we watched the girl retreat back down the hall and into the store, Misty broke down laughing.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” she laughed. “That was the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Jah, but it verked. Now let’s get this show on the road. I’m thinking at some point she’s bound to realize she’s a fucking idiot.”

Motioning to the door, Misty said “Just as soon as you two get out into that hall.”

“Oh come on,” Justin said as I reached for the door. “We promise not to look. Two, three times at the most.”

“Out.”

In the hall we found some chairs and sat down.

“So,” Justin said, “Do you plan to speak at all today, or are you just going to keep being a mopey idiot?”

“Sorry man, didn’t want to move in on your turf.”

“You stop that right now. I would never try to steal your girl, and you know it.”

“Look it doesn’t matter; she’s not interested in me.”

“That so?”

“Every time I try to talk to her things get awkward and she looks away, Justin.”

“Right. So you know like, nothing about women, do you?”

My response, which I assure you was immeasurably witty, was cut-off by the sound of the break-room handle turning.

“Well,” Misty asked cheerily, “What do you think?”

She was beautiful. She was dressed in a tennis outfit and looked stunning. This was the type of beauty that poetry was written of, the very beauty that makes life worthy. She was the very essence of all that was right in the world.

I grunted something which I hope sounded like ‘nice.”

“You look fantastic,” Justin said, shaking his head.

“Good enough for me. Let me go get changed back.”

“Wait a minute,” Justin said. “We were looking forward to a montage, right Petey?”

After allowing me to attempt to sputter out some actual words, and apparently realizing that wasn’t likely to happen, Misty headed back into the break room.

Not looking up I threw a finger in Justin’s general direction. “Not a word. I know. I suck.”

Justin paused for a while. “Yep.”

As Misty came back out, I grabbed my stack of outfits and moved to the door.

“Our turn for a show now?” Misty asked.

I gave a nervous laugh and head nod, then shut the door behind me. Throwing my pile down on the table, I scanned the assortment for the best fit. A long series of embarrassing outfits wasn’t looking very appealing, so I decided just picking one was the way to go. Grabbing a package from the bottom of the pile, I read the title: ‘Chief Drinking Horse.’ Okay, so that’s not offensive. I wasn’t really in wear-only-a-vest shape, but I was a big fan of war paint, so I figured it would do.

Leaving the rest of the packages on the table I stepped back into the hall.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Justin said. “We don’t even get a preview?”

“You’ll have to see tonight I guess.”

“Booooo,” Misty booed. “That’s no fun.”

I shrugged in a way I hoped said, ‘sorry,’ though it actually said ‘I’m an awkward jackass’ much more. Heading back into the store we headed to the register.

“Did you find some outfits you like?”

“Jah, jah,” Justin answered as Misty paid for her outfit. “Alles ist gut.”

Placing my costume down and handing over my credit card, I hoped the girl wouldn’t notice the name. And that my card wouldn’t get rejected. With my card cleared, we headed for the exit.

When we got outside Misty turned to us. “That was so much fun, we should totally hang out more often.”

“Yeah,” I offered, before realizing I had nothing else to say.

“Okay then,” Justin said wrapping an arm around my shoulder, “We’re gonna get going, see you later tonight Misty.”

I piled into the passenger seat as Justin fired up the ignition.

“Call me crazy Petey, but you just had an actual response to Misty, that like, a normal person would give.”

“Shut up.’

“No, I’m proud of you. Maybe tonight you can go for number two.”

*****

With the vest around my shoulders, and the headdress perched precariously on top of my head, I looked at my bed where the final pieces of my costume lay. Nowhere in the example picture were there ass-less chaps or faux-leather nut-hugging underwear, yet there they lay.

Handling the situation in as mature a way as I could, I decided to put off the problem, and headed to my closet’s full length mirror to apply my war paint. I’m not the most artistically able guy ever, but I figured that I could probably manage a few straight lines under my eyes, and I knew Justin could manage “I Heart Balls” on my forehead, so it was probably best to just try on my own.

With the paint applied there was nothing left to do but apply the chaps. I stared at them with disdain, but a look at the clock told me I had to be ready in five minutes. Fuck.

Stepping out of my room, I walked self-consciously to the kitchen, where Justin sat waiting for me. Justin’s a good friend, which was why I knew I could count on him to be supportive.

He was able to suppress three laughs with that pseudo-cough thing before breaking out in hysterical laughter.

“Dude, I know, it’s not good.”

“Are…are you wearing slacks?”

“The chaps were ass-less!”

“Whatever you say Chief Crunches Number.”

I had tried the chaps. I even picked them up once. They just weren’t right on any level. Justin on the other hand had produced a stunningly accurate costume out of his ass once again. It’s not that the Forsaken is a particularly touch costume to create, he’s simply a martial arts bad-ass played by Alex Chang who wears a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, and carries a mace. The thing is Justin didn’t buy anything while we were out and yet I’d never seen the front-zippered sweatshirt which now hung un-zipped on him. Oh, and then of course, there was also-

“The Mace?” Justin asked, catching me staring. “Pretty sweet huh?”

“Where did you get a mace?”

“It was just lying around. Oh, that reminds me. Here,” he said as he tossed something at me.

With a shriek I dodged the item and watched it slam into our kitchen wall with a thud and a dent.

“Nice hands jackass.”

Picking the item up I saw it was a hatchet. A real hatchet.

“Pretty sweet huh? I’m guessing you could have found a spot on your chaps for it, the slacks not so much. I guess you can just keep it in your pocket.”

“But, it’s a real hatchet.”

“I know. I like to come through for my posse. Now let’s go. The limo’s gonna be here soon.”

I followed Justin out of the house, placing the hatchet on the counter as I walked out the door. I wasn’t bringing a weapon to the party and getting shot.

Thankfully, only a few cars drove past us while we waited, and the limo arrived at eight on the dot. Impressive. Climbing in the back, I saw we were the last of our crew to be picked up, and that the limo’s windows were heavily tinted. Actually, on a second look, they were black. We threw our hellos around the limo and sat down next to the Wonder Twins, who through what we can only guess was dumb luck, had chosen to be the Wonder Twins this year. Across from us sat Misty in her gorgeous tennis outfit, Shelly, who had chosen the slutty school girl look, and Armando as the Hulk, green paint and everything. Derrick sat on the other side of the twins and was dressed as, well, something I didn’t recognize.

“Hey Derrick,” I said as I leaned forward to see him, “Um, that’s a real nice…”

“Ashe. I’m Ashe from Pokemon.”

“Right. Ashe. Really good. Great Ashe.”

Sitting back I looked at Justin, who was near seizures in his attempts not to laugh. At least I wouldn’t have the lamest costume at the party. Nobody wants to be the laughingstock of Hollywood’s A-List.

‘Hey Shelly,” Justin called down the limo. “Can you do me a big favor? Can you tell me what’s in that?” Justin was pointing at the limo’s built in cooler.

“I don’t know. I never looked.”

“Right. So, like, could you?”

Looking thoroughly put off, Shelly lifted the lid and looked inside.

“Looks like some wine and a bottle of vodka.”

“And those glasses next to you, would those appear to be real?”

“Yes, Justin.”

“Then why aren’t we drinking.”

“Because we are going to our job.”

“Father would not be pleased by what you’re saying Justin,” Raymond scoffed.

“Well then, we probably shouldn’t let father find out, should we? Now let’s all get tore up and have ourselves a great Halloween party.”

The idea didn’t really go over too well in the limo, but that didn’t stop Justin from getting started by himself. Fortunately for him, the limo ride ended up taking us nearly an hour, and by the time we felt the limo pulling to a stop Derrick was the only one of us seeing just one of the others. Justin had a strict policy on alcohol and minors.

Experiencing a little difficulty I opened the door to the limo and stepped out. We were officially in the middle of nowhere. Woods sprawled in every direction, broken up only by the expansive mansion that stood before me. The place looked ready to spontaneously collapse, the perfect setting for a Halloween bash. As the others followed, my cell phone went off. Forgetting I’m an idiot, I checked the display to see that a giant fissure was calling, and put the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Ah, good evening,” said a voice entirely unfamiliar.

“Can I ask who’s calling?”

“The proprietor of the party you have just arrived at. I felt I should at least fill you in a little on what will be expected of all of you tonight.”

“Oh, Mr. Curry. I’m sorry; I didn’t think you would sound so, British.”

“That’s why it’s called acting my friend. Anywho, you’re going to be in charge of my caterers tonight. Now, when you all get inside you’ll want to go straight to the end of the hall through the double-doors into the main hall. The DJ should already be there; if you could just get all your friends to work the food and drink I’d be eternally grateful. Everything is already set up for you.”

“Yeah, sure thing Mr. Curry.”

“Oh, and Pete, do try to enjoy yourself. Life’s too short to not enjoy it no?”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Great. Oh, and do try to hurry, guests will be arriving in ten minutes.”

“Goodbye Mr.-” He had already hung up. Turning back around I saw the limo’s headlights disappearing down the dirt road and into the woods. “Okay, everyone. I just got off the phone with Benjamin-fucking-Curry, and he said everything’s already ready. We just have to go tend to it.”

Armando began to laugh uncontrollably. Putting an arm around him, Justin began to walk inside. “I think he’s a bit of a lightweight,” he said, looking back at us.

The rest of us followed them inside, some in straighter lines than others. The entrance hall was amazing, like the world’s greatest haunted house. Everything seemed centuries old, and every third board creaked. At the end stood oak double-doors, formerly ornate but now just a little run down.

Through the doors was the main ballroom, and it too was perfectly crafted. I had to give Curry credit, whoever he hired to do the design on this place knew what they were doing.

Our tables were set up around the outside, and the bar was in the far corner. Along the back wall the DJ had an expansive booth set up, from which he was waving to us. Crossing the large, eerily lit room, we made our way over to him.

“Hey, the name’s DJ Skizzle, this is my assistant Mike.”

From behind him Mike nodded.

“Cool,” Justin said, “What are you guys dressed as?”

“We’re dressed as people that take our jobs seriously,” Mike scoffed.

“Oh. I’m a street ninja. You see he used to be a ninja, but then he hit some hard times and had to live on the streets. Then his girl got killed, and he was all, ‘I’ma fuck some people up.’ Oh, and I get to carry a mace.”

Skizzle looked at him, then at me. I shrugged.

“Right. So, how about this set up? Pretty sweet, huh?”

“Yeah, Skiz. Can I call you Skiz? So Skiz, I’m gonna yield the floor now to Runs With Loafers here, cause I really need to find a bathroom stat.”

With that he headed back toward the double-doors. Realizing nobody else had been introduced I pointed a finger in the general direction of Armando and called off names for him. “Oh yeah, and I’m Pete. We gotta go check out our tables, but we’ll be around tonight.”

“Yeah, you can all feel free to stop by the booth. And don’t let Mike here scare you, I assure you he’s harmless.”

Looking around us, we all headed to the different tables around the room as Skizzle began to play the first track of the night. Following Misty I grabbed the arrangement next to her, and found it to contain an assortment of Halloween themed treats, as Justin found his way back into the room. Dancing across the floor he hopped the table and took up his post by my side.

Within five minutes of our arrival the guests started pouring in. There must have been an endless flow of limos as there was no slow trickle. Before we knew it the place was full, and we were busily handing out bloody-skull cookies and cream-filled eyeballs.

The party was most definitely A-List, with the likes of Teagan Reilly, Hollywood’s top party girl, and Steve Williams, the reigning Super Bowl MVP, all dressed in no doubt ungodly-expensive costumes. We even saw Alex Chang arrive, at which point Justin asked me to be sure he didn’t get drunk and kick Chang’s ass. It really is entertaining watching celebrities dressed like idiots and getting drunk like regular people.

And then she arrived.

I was alerted to her presence by Justin repeatedly hitting me and shouting my name. Believe me Justin, I saw her. Everyone did. Jennifer Allan was the single greatest creation this world has ever seen. She got her start as a leather-clad heroine on TV, and was soon the biggest name in Hollywood. It was probably due in part to her being drop-dead gorgeous.

Jennifer Allen had been my computer wallpaper for the past twenty-seven months, and the woman of my dreams for even longer, and tonight I was in her presence. And she was in a skimpy nurse’s outfit. Sometimes, life is good.

The alcohol flowed freely at the party, and Justin made sure to make several trips for the three of us. After nearly an hour of working the party I had made a complete ass of myself to Misty only once, and had even had a conversation with her for several minutes one time.

Soon, we had reached the state where manning the tables at such a festivity seemed like an affront against humanity, and began to mingle with the guests.

As I moved through the crowd I saw the Wonder Twins doing their best to schmooze, chips off the old block, and Shelly attempting to set a record for famous guys hooked up with in what night. Then, through the mass of bodies I spotted Misty dancing by herself, and decided to something.

That’s when my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Ahh, how is the party going?” I could barely here Curry over the music. “My flight to town has been delayed and I’m going to miss my own party. How’s that for luck?”

“Oh, that’s… terrible. Yeah, the party is great. Just, just great.”

“Listen Pete? There’s another exit to the hall. It’s in the back, behind the DJ. You remember that, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Okay. Wait, what?”

“Good day Peter.”

In hindsight, that was a pretty strange phone conversation.

Hanging up the phone, I scanned the crowd for Misty, but couldn’t find her. Justin on the other hand was able to find me.

“Yo man, I totally think I’m gonna be nailing that Teagan chick tonight. And you, you should come with me.”

“No, Justin, I’m not interested in hooking up with whatever friend she has with her tonight. Sorry, but no thanks.”

“Oh yea of little faith, just follow me.”

Justin led me through the crowd, then stopped and pointed. It was Misty. Justin really is a great guy.

Pushing through the bodies I approached her. “May I have this dance?”

May I have this dance? What is this, a fucking gala ball? Jackass.

“Sure,” she giggled.

Well, that wasn’t expected.

“You look really nice tonight,” I said as we moved with the music.

“Thanks,” she said over her shoulder. “I really like your khakis.”

“Yeah, they’re alright.”

She was beautiful as I looked down at her, and I knew had to do it. Mustering up initiative I didn’t know I had I moved in for the kiss. I’m pretty sure I heard a chorus of angels as she moved up to meet me. Our lips were nearly together when the glass broke to the right of me.

The entrance might have been a bit excessive, but I had to give the guy some credit, his zombie costume was tight. It even looked liked his flesh was really falling off in places.

“Dude, that costume is awesome,” a partier said to him. I recognized the guy as one of those “that guy” actors you see everywhere, but could never actually name. You could always describe them perfectly though. If I were to describe this guy though, I would now have to include the three-inch-wide hole where his neck used to meet his shoulder. Zombie guy was really committed to the role.

WHUMP.

That’s how I would represent the sound of an oak door being pounded on dully. Some people would go “WHOMP” but I like to go against the grain.

As the oak doors gave, and more windows began to be smashed in, it became apparent there was more than one person dressed as a zombie this year.

“How awkward for them,” I laughed.

“What?”

Turns out Misty can’t hear my inner monologue. Otherwise, that joke would have killed.

The room had developed a bit of a panic as more of the zombies piled in, and all seemed rather intent on consuming the partiers. They were coming in from all directions. Except behind us.

“The DJ Booth. Misty, I know where we can go. There’s a door behind the DJ booth, Curry told me. You’ll be safe there. Get as many as you can to go with you.”

“What about you.”

“I’ll be there; I’ve got to find Justin first.”

“But-”

“Misty, go. I’ll meet you there, I promise.”

I turned off into the masses as she leaned in. Damnit. I had to find Justin first though, I could tend to carnal matters later when there was less of a “get your face bitten off” threat.

Justin was in the middle of the floor with Teagan, and they were apparently oblivious to the mayhem around them due to other occupations. Plowing across the dance floor I tapped him on the shoulder, as I felt a hand grab mine. Turning to slay the hell-beast assaulting me I saw a 90 pound Asian girl in a cat suit.

“Hey there sexy, I’m-”

“Sorry lady, I’ve got no time to play wingman, Justin we’ve gotta go. Teagan, friend, you should follow us.”

Justin looked at me to protest, but stopped after catching my eyes.

“Lead the way.”

As we moved to the rear the room had erupted into full-out panic mode, and the number of undead interspersed in the crowd, clawing, biting and such, seemed to be growing exponentially. As we neared the DJ booth I saw Misty standing there, waiting for us. Why didn’t she listen? The zombie that grabbed her seemed to come out of nowhere.

I screamed and pushed on toward her. Before I could reach her I saw Skizzle launch himself off the booth at the beast and wrestle it off her to the ground. Bastard, that should have been me. Grabbing Misty I hopped over the booth, and pulled her with me. I looked for Skizzle and saw the zombie was now on top of him, chewing on his arm. I guess I could forgive him for stealing my thunder.

“Justin, there’s the door, get them in there,” I shouted. My next move was to the mic. I hoped the mic was on.

“People,” my voice boomed, and left my head ringing. The mic was on. “Up here, by the DJ booth. There’s a safe way out.” I looked out to see all the grateful faces of the people I was saving, merely to find only a hoard of zombies advancing. Deciding that some zombie’s dinner was not what I wanted to be for Halloween, I raced back through the door and shut it behind me.

Inside I looked at the frightened faces looking back at me and did a quick count. Fifteen others had made it back here.

“Everyone else,” a girl who looked far too young to be at the party said questioningly.

“I think they’re all dead.”

NaNoWriMo

2006-11-04T13:08:00.000-08:00

Well, I am officially taking part in National Novel Writing Month. My story is called "Benjamin Curry's Halloween Spectacular" and it's pretty fucking awesome. Anyways, I'll be throwing chapters up here on Blogger (and I guess facebook too cause my blog automatically goes to facebook notes) as I finish them. As of right now, I hammered out 2,394 words today, which still leaves me well behind the 1,500 per-day pace it takes to complete the 50,000 word requirement, but as I started on the 4th, I can't really complain, I'll have to slowly hack my way back. Hell, I may even get a little more writing in tonight after Tennessee spanks LSU. Either way, the first chapter is done, so if you have a load of free-time on your hands, enjoy.

Chapter One – The Bat Mitzvah

I awoke to the euphony of Fall Out Boy coming from my clock-radio, and died a little more inside at the realization that another of my favorite classic-rock stations had changed format to pop when I wasn’t paying attention. I guess that’s just one of the downsides of living in California.

When I say “one of” I suppose I’m contrasting it with the other unique things about life in California which are really rather… who am I kidding? They’re all fucking downsides. In truth, I’m only out here because I couldn’t stand the thought of staying with my parents after graduation, and my main man Justin wanted to move out here to fulfill his life-long goal of being an actor. Two weeks after we got here his life-long goal was lion tamer. Now I’m pretty sure it’s sea pirate.

With a stretch that would put a kitten to shame, I sat up in bed and torqued my head left until I heard a sharp crack, a morning ritual I’ve had for as long as I can remember, which combined with my luck should probably have left me paralyzed several times by now. Throwing my covers off, I swung my right leg off the bed and placed it down, directly into a cold pizza. By feel, anchovies if I had to guess. Following suit, my left foot came down on what felt like a house cat. We don’t have a house cat.

Shooting up, Justin seemed angry at me. “What the fuck Pete? Don’t you look where you’re walking? I was having a great fucking dream too.”

“Well, Justin,” I said as I attempted to rub some focus back into my eyes. “You were getting up anyways, we’ve got work.”

Justin trudged poutingly out of my room and I heard the tell-tale sound of our coffee machine sputtering to life as I shut off the alarm with a glance. 1:30.

Justin and I had been working the same job since we moved out here. We’re professional entertainers.

Okay, that might be overselling it a little. We worked for a party planning company, usually as caterers. But, if the party didn’t hire a separate DJ, sometimes we would rock the mic, which was always fun. Plus, our boss is a big name in the industry, so we sometimes get to work some nice celebrity bashes, and laugh at the drunken famous people. Most of the time though, the jobs are much more mundane things. Wedding receptions, spoiled rich kids’ birthdays and the occasional Christening or Bat Mitzvah.

Oh, fuck.

“Justin!”

“Yo, man,” he called from the kitchen. “What’s up?”

“Did you change my alarm?”

“Yeah man, after last night we needed it.”

We did, but that’s not the point.

“Relax Petey, eleven is way too early to wake up when work’s at three.”

“We were supposed to be at the Bat Mitzvah at noon asshole!”

“Oh. Well, let me finish this coffee and I’ll find my shit,” he muttered before taking the loudest pull of coffee I’ve ever experienced.

As for me, I was busy frantically running about my room in an attempt to find my keys, phone and wallet.

After fishing my cell phone out from behind the bed I checked the display to see just how many missed calls I had from my boss. Turns out a giant crack in it will make your display not work. Add another item to the list of broken things I can’t afford to fix, just ahead of the TV, but still behind Mr. Biggums the Cuddlebear, the victim of what Justin called “a love tear.” I’d like to think he was messing with me.

Throwing my stuff on the bed, I went to the closet and grabbed my outfit from its hanger. I’m not exactly proud of the outfits we wear for things like Bat Mitzvahs, the whole faux-suit and bow-tie thing doesn’t really do it for me, but I’ve got to admit it makes me look good, and since that means looking good around Misty, I guess I can’t complain.

As I did my final button and slapped on the bow-tie I checked the clock. 1:45. Okay, not too bad. With a final look in the mirror I left my room and popped my head into Justin’s. Nothing. Maybe he was in the bathroom just fixing his hair. Sure, I sacrificed the finer grooming for time, maybe Justin couldn’t. Door open, bathroom empty. With a resigned sigh I slumped into the kitchen.

“Hey man. I wanted another cup.”

*****

We rolled out of the house just shy of 2:30 and I headed for my Cavalier.

Behind me Justin whistled. “No dice Petey, we’re late. Gonna need a car that goes zero to sixty in under an hour. We’re taking mine.”

Nice. I loved when we got to take the Jag to work. You see, the thing about Justin, and the reason I can’t really get mad when he doesn’t take work seriously, is that he really doesn’t need it. He saw poker on TV a few years ago, and in true Justin style, he proved to be really good at it with really little effort. He’s never told me just how much he made off of it, but I know he bought our current apartment and his Jaguar cash. So every time I’m ready to yell at him, like when he really needs that second cup, I realize he’s only even at that job anymore because I need him there to make it bearable, and because I’m too proud to quit and let him support me while I look for a better one.

As we got into the car Justin turned to me. “I’m gonna need you to navigate me, don’t know where we’re going.”

“It’s the Kensington, Justin. Half our jobs are there.”

“I stand by my words.”

I have to give him credit. Maybe it’s only because he likes to go fast when he’s in the Jag, but Justin does a great job of making up time when he drives. We arrived at the Kensington at quarter-to, a good ten minutes faster than I would have gotten us there.

Pulling up to the valet parking, Justin tossed his keys to the valet, a teenager named Tommy. “Take good care of her Timmy; I don’t want you picking up more than three ladies with that while I’m gone.”

“You got it Mr. Donaldson,” Tommy said with a smile.

Heading inside, Justin looked back at me. “Let’s go Nancy, we’re late.”

With a jog to catch up, I looked to Justin to shore up our story. “So, what are we going to tell Mr. Drake?”

“Well, I’m thinking we tell him about how we met these two really hot girls, got shot down and went home to drown our sorrows in beer and the bouncing ladies of Dead or Alive.”

Not having the benefit of a mirror I can only imagine I looked non-plussed.

“I’m fucking with you Petey. We had a car accident, that’s how your phone broke. How can he blame us?”

“But we didn’t have-”

“Yeah, we are going to have to crash your car later. I’ll buy you a new one, don’t worry.”

“But-”

“So, is today the big day?” He asked while delivering some overly strong elbows to my side.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Is today the day you actually tell Misty how you feel, you know, all that sissy shit you whine about when you’re drunk?”

“Don’t you dare say-”

“Yeah, I know. Not a word. Got it. After you ma’am,” he offered while holding the door for me.

Down the Kensington’s long hall we saw the main ballroom, and next to its oak double-doors stood Franklin Drake, a bear of a man. A noticeably unhappy bear of a man.

Laughing at some internal joke, Justin turned to me, “It’s like he knew we were coming at this minute.”

“Or more likely he’s been standing there for three hours waiting for us.”

“Yeah, probably that one. But, what if instead, no? What if he actually had super powers, telekinesis, and he knew? That’d be wacky.”

“Yeah, Justin. Real wacky.”

As we got near, Drake drew himself up to appear even bigger and opened his mouth to speak.

Justin beat him to it. “Mr. Drake, you have no idea how great it is to see the face of a friend. We’ve had quite a day. Pete here was trying to wave at some girl he saw and we crossed the median. Then, the idiot panics, whips us back, we flip like, three or four times, and just total the car. I cut my leg pretty bad, but otherwise we’re okay though, so don’t worry.” Pulling up his pant-leg, Justin displayed the bandages around his ankle, in the center of which was a small red stain. I didn’t know when he had found the time to bandage himself, or what the red was, though I was pretty sure that I didn’t want to know. “Oh, and Petey broke his phone. Show him Pete.”

Sheepishly I held up my cracked Nokia for Drake’s inspection. He looked ready to ream us out still, before deciding it wasn’t worth it. “Get the Hell inside, help Misty out. She’s been working the meats all by herself because of you two.”

As we entered the hall Justin gave me another elbow to the ribs. “I bet you’d like her to wo-”

I stopped him with a glare and pointed across the room. “There’s the meat buffet let’s go.”

“Fine, be that way,” he moaned as he followed me. “Like her to work your meat.”

“You know what Justin? I fucking hate you.”

“Sure you do shmookums,” he said as he headed around the buffet table. “Hey Misty, how’s life?” Justin slapped her on the ass as he walked by, and she laughed. That bastard.

“Hi, Justin. Today’s been Hell.”

“That’s because my main man Pete wasn’t here,” he said patting me on the back vigorously.

Likely blushing I gave a meek wave. “Hey…uh…hi, Misty.”

Misty smiled at me, and looked away, before turning to Justin. Bastard I tell you.

Grabbing a sausage patty and taking a bite, Justin scanned the room. “So, who’s on today?”

“Oh, it’s a winning crew,” Misty said rolling her emerald eyes. “That new kid’s working, what is it Derrick?”

“David,” Justin corrected her, even though the kid was named Derrick.

“Armando’s working the bar. Shelly is around somewhere, and Matt too. And, of course, the wonder twins.

The wonder twins were Drake’s kids, Rachel and Raymond. Drake didn’t want to be accused of being one of those wealthy parents who spoil their kids so he made them work. The fact that they had salaries four times as big as ours and did pretty much nothing didn’t seem to matter much to him.

“Huh, they are useless aren’t they,” I laughed. “Lousy… do-nothingers.”

Misty gave a polite giggle and looked at her feet. Smooth Henderson, very smooth. I looked at Justin for support and saw him laughing at me. Catching my eyes, and glare, he stopped and threw an ‘OK’ sign with his hand. I sensed sarcasm.

I’d love to tell you how this situation improved in the time that followed, but two hours later, when the food traffic had died down, I could still count two moments of eye-contact and a three response conversation as the highlights of the day.

Like I said before, we aren’t strictly a catering company; we’re hired for entertainment, which gives us a decent leash to play with. It was with that leash that Misty left us to go out to the dance floor during the lull.

“Things have sure died down over here,” Justin said to me.

“Yep.”

“Probably only need one of us here.”

“Yeah, you can go have fun if you want.”

Shaking his head, Justin turned to me. “How many times were you dropped on your head as a baby?”

“What?”

“Okay, I’ll go slow. Now would be a good time for you, Pete Henderson, to go on that dance floor, and dance with Misty. Go now, or hand in your balls.”

“I don’t know Justin, I mean, she doesn’t seem to like me very much, and-”

“Okay, there’s a bin outside where you can place your testicles for forfeit. While you’re doing that, I’m gonna go dance with Misty and talk about how great you are, because she does not deserve to be dancing all sad and alone. If at some point you feel the urge to break in, that’d be cool.”

I watched them dance for an hour and a half. That girl-stealing punk. The party goers seemed to enjoy them. Justin always has been able to win people over. They came back to the table to help me break everything down laughing. After a couple mood-killing, eye-aversion-causing comments I decided I was done talking for the night.

As we loaded the last of our pans into the back of Drake’s truck, we saw his imposing figure barreling down on us.

“How would you boys like to work a little over time?”

“Define overtime,” Justin stated flatly.

“Just got a call. Crew dropped out on a big-shot’s party and he needs us to take over. I can’t get a new unit called up, so it’d be best if you all took it.”

“Do we have to wear these faggy suits?”

Drake looked taken aback, but he also needed us tonight. “No. Halloween party; you’ll have to get costumes.”

“Shotgun ‘the Forsaken.’ We’re in. Who’s the host?”

“Benjamin Curry.”

“Oh, Hollywood party. That’s all you had to say Drakey. Let’s go Pete, we’ve got costumes to buy.”

Following Justin inside, I turned back to Mr. Drake. “Where are we going and when?”

“Ah, that’s the best part. A limousine will be picking you all up. I just have to give him the addresses of my crew. He said to be ready at eight.”

“Hey, did you hear that Justin, we’re getting a limo. Justin?”

Justin was nowhere to be found. I stood confused there for a second before Justin came back out with Misty. “She says she knows a great place. We’re gonna follow her and go shopping together.”

Get a room.

Gabey Kotter - Chapter 1 - Giants, Squirrels and Love in a Bathroom

2006-10-19T13:00:00.000-07:00

General Disclaimer: I started this story on a whim, and the section below was likely written in about an hour. The chapters I post to Blogger have had only the minorest of proof-reading, and will likely be entirely different when I finish the story. Read at your own risk:

Chapter One – Giants, Squirrels and Love in a Bathroom

Saturday came faster than Gabey ever could have imagined, and before he knew it he found himself walking through JFK, a colander full of knives in one hand, and a Captain Smilies Little Tykes Magic Kit (Ages 4 and up, not available in Canada) in the other. He felt like a bit of an ass with the crummy plastic rod that was inside, but frankly where the fuck was he supposed to get a real wand on that short of notice.

As he scanned the flight display in hopes of locating his terminal, Gabey simply could not see Flight 93/4 anywhere. Thinking quickly he flagged down a passing security guard. “Excuse me sir,” he offered politely. “Might you be able to tell me where I can find Flight 93/4?”

Looking thoroughly put off at being forced to stop and interact with someone, the guard glared at Gabey. “You think you’re funny kid?”

“Kid? I’m 47 years old. And I just want to know where my flight is.”

“Listen sport, there ain’t no Flight 93/4. Wait a minute, what do you have in that colander?”

“Umm… they’re for my asthma.”

“Oh, makes sense.” With that, the surly guard continued on his way.

Left to himself, and no better off, Gabey returned his gaze to the display, where he located a flight 934 to London. ‘Asshole was probably drunk when he wrote the letter and dragged the pen,’ he thought. Gabey was beginning to feel attending this school may not be such a great call, but then again it was a free plane ticket, even if it was too crummy old England.

The flight was non-eventful. The in flight movie starred Michelle Rodriguez as a tough-girl, and a baby cried for several hours. Gabey occupied himself thinking about all the painful spells he would learn to cast on people as part of his rise to tyranny.

As Gabey departed the plane he realized he had no fucking clue where to go from there. “I have no fucking clue where to go from here,” he said as he elbowed his way down the aisle and off the plane. All his concern was soon put to rest however, when he spotted the large man-beast waiting for him at the end of the tunnel.

The man was huge, with a dirty, matted beard, and was clad in a fox-skin loincloth. In his giant hands was a sign which read “The Gabey Kotter.” On seeing Gabey his face lit up, and he extended a meaty paw out for the shaking. “Greetin’s Gabey, name’s Ingrid.”

“Come again,” Gabey queried.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a woman’s name.”

“Catch a lot of shit for it?”

“Not really. You break a few necks and people stop with the name calling.”

Gabey began to give a small laugh, but upon seeing the man was not joking decided it best not to. Gabey made a mental note; when it came time to raise his army, this was the guy he wanted on his side.

“Well then Gabey, if you’ll just follow me, I’ll be taking you to the Boarshead Express.”

“You know, I go by Gabe. Only my housemates call me Gabey.”

“What’s that Gabey?” The Giant’s neck gave a might crack as he turned to look back at Gabey.

“Never mind. So… do you work at the school?”

“Yeah, I do maintenance. You know, mowing lawns, caring for wild animals, killing rule-breakers. The usual.”

Outside the airport they came to a small piece-of-shit of a car, and Ingrid crammed himself into the driver’s side enthusiastically. Noting the front was entirely occupied by Ingrid’s girth, Gabey threw his things in the back seat and followed suit. Leaning forward, Gabey was about to ask how far the trip would be when Ingrid’s monstrous mitts clapped him on the ears, knocking him out cold.

*****

Groggily Gabey came to, and found himself being violently shaken by Ingrid. Outside the car he could see an ornate station and a long brown train.

“’Bout time you woke up Gabey,” Ingrid huffed, dragging Gabey out of the car. “We’ve been here for 10 minutes already. Sorry about the whole knocking you out thing. Couldn’t let you know where this station is located.”

“Why couldn’t I know where the station is located?”

“Alright, you caught me,” Ingrid smirked, tossing Gabey’s belongings out before hopping back into the front seat. “Anyways, it’s been real. Might want to hurry, train’s leaving.”

Looking behind him Gabey saw the train was indeed in motion, and he scattered to pick up his splayed knives as Ingrid sped away. In a panic, Gabey grabbed the last knife and darted after the train. He made it to the edge of the platform just in time to hop into the doors of the last car. Whew. Story almost ended before it fucking began my dear readers.

The car was empty, save for a lone figure sleeping at the far end. With his crap in tow, Gabey walked down and sat in the seat across from the figure. With a discerning eye, Gabey looked him over. He was young, probably in his late teens, with a messy mop of orange hair. Beside him sat a pot with a hole in it, and a bag of butter knives. The kid was wearing some ratty chef’s robes, and had a sagging chef’s hat perched on his head.

Gabey rode in silence in the car for several minutes before boredom set in. With careful balance on the moving train he positioned himself to give the kid the tea-bagging of a lifetime, when the sleeping mass stirred.

Jarred by the unexpected presence of balls on his chin, the kid emitted a shrill shriek. Content with the results, Gabey sat down again. “Hey kid, the name’s –“

“Gabey Kotter,” the kid shrieked. “You’re Gabey Kotter. I’m… my name is… I’m… Beasley. I’m Don Beasley.”

“Nice to meat you kid, but if you don’t mind my asking, how do you know who I am?”

“Well, because you’re Gabey fucking Kotter, that’s why.”

It made sense to Gabey, so he left it at that.

“Listen up Donnie, I’m gonna me running shit around this place, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be getting on now, when the getting’s good. You dig?”

“Oh, yeah, I dig. I’m all about the gangsta shit.”

“Good. Now here’s the deal, I’ve got me a hunger. Something fierce. And this,” he grabbed the plastic wand from its box, “ain’t going to help me right about now.”

“Whoa,” Don gasped, “that’s a sweet wand. I just have this stick my mom broke off of a tree.” In his hand was a small gnarled twig, with what appeared to be fungus growing off one end.

“Are you shitting me?”

“I’m kind of poor. Oh, and I have this,” Don added sheepishly as he pulled a near dead squirrel out of his pot.

“Can we eat it?”

“What? No! If you want food you just press this button,” Don pointed at the large button next to him with a picture of a steak on it.

“Don’t give me sass, bitch,” Gabey spat, as he slammed the button with his fist.

“Sorry, sir,” Don offered, slinking back in his seat.

The food cart arrived promptly and Gabey ordered the whole spread. “I’m low right now,” he said to the hairy man pushing the cart. “My friend here’ll get me.”

“But I don’t have any money, I’m poor,” Don moaned.

“Well then you’ll have to pay him another way. Let’s go, to the bathroom with both of you.”

Don looked at Gabey pleadingly, but was met with cold resolve. Sobbing he followed the hairy man to the bathroom at the end of the car.

Content, Gabey sat back to enjoy his meal, but found his pleasure interrupted by the entrance of another teenager, this one a girl with long, wild, brown hair.

“What the fuck do you want?” Gabey asked, not looking up from the turkey sandwich in his hands.

“Are you Ga-“

“I said, 'what the fuck do you want?'”

“My name’s Hermelanie,” she said cheerily. Gabey ate his sandwich. After several minutes of silence, she turned and left. Gabey listened to the sound of her sobbing as it retreated down the hall.

Gabey enjoyed his meal until he felt the tell-tale lurch of the train’s deceleration. Tossing the rest of the food out the window he walked back to the bathroom and pounded on the door. “We’re slowing down Don, might want to wrap it up in there.”

Gabey Kotter and the Sorceror's Throne

2006-10-18T10:19:00.000-07:00

I don't really know what possessed me to start writing this story, but I did. I've only written all of a page, and this section will probably be entirely different when I finish (in theory) the story. This hasn't so much as been proofread, so critiques and corrections are more than welcome. Anywho, enjoy. Or don't. No skin off my back. Also, sorry for the split in the letter, Blogger was being a jerk and I had to split it into two files to make it readable.

*****

Gabey Kotter’s eyes fluttered open slowly, as he grunted the grunt of a newly awoken man. The taste of stripper and cheap tequila still hung heavily in his mouth as he sat up, ready for another day eating Hot Pockets and surfing the web for pornography.

“Holy Mother of Cock,” he shouted, as his head’s upward progress was unexpectedly stopped by a protrusion out of the wall. ‘Who put a goddamn shelf above my bed?’ he thought, as his hand felt the bloody gash on his forehead. ‘Unless,’ as his eyes came into focus Gabey realized he was not in his bed, ‘I got drunk and passed out in the pantry under the stairs again.’

Gabey groped blindly in the dark until his hand found the door handle, and he tumbled haphazardly out into the hall. Picking himself up, Gabey stumbled down the hall to the bathroom where he examined his battle wound. The shelf had left a nice cut in the shape of an ‘L’ in the middle of his forehead. “Fuck, that’s gonna leave a scar.”

The smell of bacon caught Gabey’s attention, and so he headed for the kitchen, a large clump of toilet paper pressed to his aching head. In the kitchen Gabey found his housemate Alonso at the stove. Looking away from his frying pan Alonso saw Gabey’s bloody face. “Oh my God Gabey, what happened?”

“Shelf,” Gabey muttered. “Bacon. Now.”

“Oh, of course sweetie,” Alonso said, scooping several strips onto a plate for Gabey. “That’s all for you though, the rest is for my Freddie.”

Fred was Alonso’s life partner. They met after Alonso saw Fred’s band play a gig, and while the law forbade them to get married, they had taken to calling themselves the Dursties, after Fred.

“Oh, and Gabey, you got some mail.”

Gabey grabbed the envelope from the counter as he sat at the table, and biting into several pieces of bacon he tore it open. A tattered looking letter fell out, and with a bemused fascination, Gabey picked it up:

Gabey put down the letter to see Alfonso staring attentively at him. “Well, what did it say?”

Gabey looked at the letter, and after a while decided it likely wasn’t actually self-destructive, rather it was written by a crackpot. Chomping down the last of his bacon Gabey went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. “I’m gonna be a wizard. Or a chef.”

Thank You Congress!

2006-10-02T23:13:00.000-07:00

Dear Congress,

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart I want to thank you for what you have done for me.

Recently, you passed a bill with the ultimate goal being to eliminate online poker sites, and the stranglehold they have over this fair country. You have saved me on so many levels, from so many evils. Just think of all the awful things I might have been doing in the coming months if you hadn't stomped out this online poker thing:

- Paying my Rent

- Having electricity and running water

- Owning luxury items like clothing, or shoes

- Paying for gas to drive my car to class

- Eating

Fortunately for me, you have ensured that I will no longer be bothered with all those people who were so fond of handing me piles of cash. Why would I want to earn money from the luxury of my bedroom wearing pajamas and watching 'Yes, Dear' when I can work mindlessly behind a cash register, or better, at a sewing machine making shoes for a nickel a day.

In short, you have made my wildest dreams come true. No longer will I be a slave to my computer, earning money while chatting with friends or eating lunch, now I can go back to having a real job. And not a job like my summer job at camp. Why work a job I can call "enjoyable" or "fulfilling" with people I "enjoy being around" when I can work a job that makes me want to "kill myself" or "kill others" while working with "assholes"?

You are the light of my life Congress, Thank you.

Faithfully yours,
Robert Preston Ingram, Esq.

Janine for Queen

2006-09-25T16:19:00.000-07:00

So, apparently Janine is running for Homecoming Queen, and since I'm pretty much awesome at everything, they asked me to help come up with some posters. On the other hand, I'm also a stupid asshole who doesn't really take anything seriously, and since Jacqui only gave me "Janine in a crown" as a requirement for one of the posters, I was pretty much working with free reign on this one. And so, I present to you the Janine for Queen Campaign, 2006. Feel free to plaster these posters all over campus. Together, we can get Janine elected Queen. Or kicked out of school for being insensitive. Win-win really.

I Will (insert crazy act) if This Group Reaches (insert number) Members!

2006-09-17T22:27:00.000-07:00

Hi Everyone,

I'm a huge attention hungry fag, who needs people to join my group so I can feel e-popular and good about myself!!!

Maybe when I was younger my parents never loved me. Maybe I was touched in my no-no place by a figure of authority. Maybe I’m just a big, whining emo. Whatever it is, I don’t love myself, and I need you to join my group so that I can. Go Me!!!

I am willing to commit to doing the following acts for every member milestone I reach:

10 members: Start spelling like a Brit. Colour anyone? Pip pip and whatnot?

50 members: Build a monument to Phil Collins and Genesis with built-in speakers. Play ‘Invisible Touch’ on non-stop loop.

100 members: Explode my house.

250 members: Have a threesome with a midget and a mime.

500 members: Murder a hobo.

1,000 members: Rock and Roll all night. Party for a fair portion of the day.

2,000 members: Donate my life-savings to the Tampa Bay Devilrays.

5,000 members: Upon my death, haunt the descendants of Nick Lachey.

10,000 members: Orbit the moon.

50,000 members: Legally change my name to Hammerthrust McUgekock.

100,000 members: Learn to fly.

200,000 members: Touch the sky.

300,000 members: Develop complex ’28 Days Later’-type device to replace all my blood with mercury. Attempt to gain super powers.

500,000 members: Perform the entire score of the popular Broadway show ‘Cats’ in a bathrobe.

1,000,000 members: Have my cake and eat it too.

2,000,000 members: Invade Canada.

5,000,000 members: Bring about the second coming of Christ.

10,000,000 members: Kill the second coming of Christ.

Okay, awesome guys. Now, I know you probably know all of the people who make groups like these are only in it for the attention, especially the ones who make groups about hating groups like this, but you know I’m totally different. So, join my group and we can take care of this Jesus guy once and for all!!!!111

PS – Chuck Norris LOLOLOL

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Product of the Future

2006-09-10T17:04:00.000-07:00

Are you a sexually frustrated woman who wants to spend more time with her children? A gay man with a love for building? Michael Jackson?

If you answered yes to any of the above questions, please allow me to introduce you to the Fuck-O-Matic.

That's right, someone has created a vibrator made out of Legos. And this isn't your mother's vibrator either; not only can you incorporate an array of thrusters ranging from the standard to the luxury units like Big Boy or the Space Age, but should the device lose its juice it comes with its own crank. That is some real block-related passion-potential right there people.

For any of you skeptics out there who think this just can't be, check out this video of the O-Matic doing what it do best. That's some serious rhythm there, especially since the attachment in the video seems to be ridiculously pointy, and possibly fatal.

Look I don't know why somebody felt the need to build a Lego vibrator. It's not like we exactly live in a chaste world where an array of deviousness doesn't already exist. What I do know however, is that somebody did do it, and anyone who can be made aware of this device and not feel the immediate need to tell everyone they know, simply isn't alive.

NFL Predictions 2006

2006-09-10T16:33:00.000-07:00

No true wannabe-pretend sports-journalist can let such a momentous occasion as the dawn of the NFL season go by un-prognosticated. The beauty of it is that months from now nobody will remember my awful picks, but I can always point to my correct ones and pretend I'm a genius. So here goes:

AFC EAST
New England 11-5
Miami 11-5
Buffalo 5-11
New York 5-11

AFC WEST
San Diego 10-6
Denver 9-7
Kansas City 8-8
Oakland 5-11

AFC NORTH
Pittsburgh 12-4
Cincy 9-7
Baltimore 8-8
Cleveland 4-12

AFC SOUTH
Indianapolis 14-2
Jacksonville 8-8
Houston 5-11
Tennessee 3-13

NFC EAST
Philly 10-6
Dallas 9-7
New York 8-8
Washington 6-10

NFC WEST
Saint Louis 10-6
Seattle 10-6
Arizona 9-7
San Fran 2-14

NFC NORTH
Chicago 12-4
Minnesota 10-6
Detroit 7-9
Green Bay 4-12

NFC SOUTH
Carolina 11-5
Tampa Bay 9-7
Atlanta 7-9
New Orleans 5-11

ROUND 1
(3) New England 17 - (6) Denver 24
(4) San Diego 21 - (5) Miami 17
(3) Philly 30 - (6) Minnesota 20
(4) Saint Louis 27 - (5) Seattle 24

ROUND 2
(1) Indianapolis 10 - (6) Denver 27
(2) Pittsburgh 31 - (4) San Diego 13
(1) Chicago 2 - (4) Saint Louis 0
(2) Carolina 20 - (3) Philly 23

CONFERENCE FINALS
(2) Pittsburgh 34 - (6) Denver 17
(1) Chicago 9- (3) Philly 13

SUPER BOWL
Pittsburgh 27 - Philly 21

For those of you surprised to see I picked the Steelers, you fail. For those of you who want to complain this is supposed to be a post on a comedy blog yet was entirely devoid of any, here's a picture of Kurt Warner calling Matt Leinart a fag.

An Open Letter to Facebook

2006-09-05T08:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Facebook,

Stop. We get it. We appreciate it. Now just stop it.

We understand what's going on with you Facebook. It's your big bro MySpace. You want to be better. You want to be bigger. Maybe your parents never loved you as much. Maybe when he was getting Hot Wheels with those sweet connecting tracks for Christmas, you were getting, I don't know, Tinker Toys. The point you’re missing is, we already liked you Facebook, because honestly, fuck MySpace. We aren't 13 year old children with black-fingernails and an aversion to sunshine. We're college kids with a drinking problem and the occasional need to browse your site for attractive members of the opposite sex.

And that's why we're here to talk to you today. Because we're your friends Facebook. We clicked the Approve button on you. But now, you're beginning to scare us. We don't even recognize your face anymore, or the way you act. Look we didn't say anything when you extended your network beyond college to high school. 'A free spirit's gotta fly sometimes,' we thought, and just let you go. We considered talking to you after you started demanding status updates every time we shifted in our seats, but again, we held off. But this, oh, fuck this. You've gone too far.

We don't need to know that that girl we went to high school with, the one who was too busy to say a word to us then, but friended us to feel more e-popular, has changed their status to "drunkzilla!!!" We couldn't care less that the person we friended while drunk off our ass freshman year has updated their photo to a totally original picture of him holding up the Leaning Tower of Pisa. What's that? Michael just picked his ass? Thank you Facebook, my day is better now that I have been told that.

Look, we aren't doing this to make you feel bad Facebook. It's because we love you. Who doesn't feel great when they receive 50 birthday wall posts, half of them from people they don't even remember? Who doesn't get just a little excited to log in and see "Phinneas Q. Assfucker has posted on your wall..."? So please, Facebook, we beg of you: Stop it. Right the fuck now.

Sincerely,
Robert P. Ingram, Esq.

Okay So I've Decided to Keep a Pseudo-Blog Again

2006-09-04T14:14:00.000-07:00

I'm using blogger now because, well aparently ipadder went under in the past few months while I was busy not giving a shit. Kind of sad to see some of that old blog go though, chief-among-the-damage being my Day After Tomorrow review (WOLVES!!!) and the Introduction to the Travers 5 Cult. Oh well, say-la-vis. I can't promise I won't get bored of this in, I don't know - 10 minutes, and never post again, but as it stands I should probably be doing some form of writing on a kind of daily basis since I am doing that whole journalism thing, and since I don't have the energy or commitment for a full article every day, here we go.

Now that that phenomenally long run-on sentence is out of the way, I just want to say that I've seen the most ridiculous thing ever today in an ad for the movie Flyboys. It's not that this ad pitches the movie as based on a true story, or the fact that the commercial also shows a character running across the top of an exploding zeppelin, while it's flying. It's the fact they do the two simultaneously that blows my mind. It's like they just said, fuck it, we aren't even going to try to pretend what we're claiming is even remotely honest. I kind of like that.

In other news Steve Irwin (aka the Crocodile Hunter) died yesterday and it's pretty sad. Turns out he was stabbed in the heart by a stingray. Maybe that isn't the grand death you saw coming for Steve Irwin, but you got to look at it in perspective; if I died after being stabbed in the heart by a stingray you guys would all think it's pretty badass. Say what you want about the guy, but his show was damn entertaining, and you have to give some level of respect to a man who spent his entire adult life provoking dangerous animals for the sake of raising awareness and making late-night channel surfers laugh. Laugh at him for his ugly hair or his stupid outfit, or even for dangling his own young in front of hungry crocs, but I think JayPinkerton put it best at his site: "It's probably an unwritten rule of male machismo that once you've got 'Put crocodile in headlock' on your résumé, you're pretty much allowed to act and dress however the fuck you like." RIP Steve, I can only hope you're up there jabbing irritable angels with sticks as I type this.

Coming Soon to my real site: I've actually been doing a decent amount of writing and stopped being fat like... the previous 4ish months, and I've got two articles on the way in the next week or so, and if I feel motivated part of a new story I've been working on.